The Loffemoore Letters
by Langogals
Summary: A gothic-style mystery surrounding a young man, a fireplace, a mysterious lady and her daughter, a dark, foreboding mansion.
1. Chapter 1

**I, Vincent Quiller was subject and indeed, very much involved in the case of the gruesome and mysterious happening at the Loffemoore Manor. Many have already labeled myself as a victim, although whether I deserve this title is the task of other minds. It has become my current station to relay all details and lesser known facts about this unfortunate affair, as well as to provide the literate world with a clear and unbiased narrative of the things I witnessed and experienced that dismal autumn season. I have been appointed to state the facts and dispel the heavy fog of confusion, so to speak, that surrounds the Manor to this day. **

**On the twelfth of August, I received a letter from an acquaintance, Henry Loffemoore. I was not a gentlemen of a very high standing, but I had encountered the young Mr. Henry Loffemoore that summer, and he had politely taken an interest in myself. In the letter I received, he cordially invited me to his abode, for he was shortly to be off to London and wished me to be one of his party. Although he was not a very intimate confidante of mine, he steadily entreated me to accept his invitation and, loathe to offend, I at last agreed. I reluctantly packed my trunk and headed to the Loffemoore Manor. It was a grand, if rather dark and somber house. Within, there was a large group of young ladies and gentlemen there assembled, most of whom originated from the very pinnacles of society and were clearly much wealthier than myself. I felt awkward and out of spirits, which was often the case with myself in large company. Henry, who knew my disposition, often berated me to be a 'more jolly, sociable fellow'. I tried my best, but failed most acutely, I'm afraid. I was on the verge of finding an excuse to quite the party and return home, but Henry insisted that if I would not go to London that I would at least station myself at the Loffemoore Manor instead of returning home to my 'dreary, little old house hidden away from the world' as he so put it. Repentant of my characteristic failings, I agreed. Henry had always been of an almost fitful nature, inclined to a great deal of impulsive and sporadic behavior, and I believe he was relieved he would not need to trouble himself with the well-being of his eccentric friend while on his London trip. Henry also mildly requested that I train an attentive eyes on his elderly father, who, as I had heard was quite the eccentric himself. The entire party left two days afterward. I was immensely grateful to be relieved of the constant tittering of the ladies and endless obligations and invitations I could not possibly accept. In the peaceful quiet, I soon became acquainted with the rest of the household, which was much more to my taste. **

**Mr. Arthur Loffemoore, or Old Man Arthur as the servant addressed him, lived alone, with only his household staff for company. There was John, the cook, who preferred to stay chained to the stove rather than involve himself in society. The true head of the household was none other than Mrs. Egreshton, who conducted every single affair of household business and was the more or less absolute authority when it came to the care-taking of the Loffemoore Manor. Personally, I did not often see her, as she was a capable and frequently engaged woman. It seemed to me that no one often saw her, and she bustled from place to place with a quick step and gave orders in a curt and swift manner. The majority of the maids looked upon me as nothing more than another set of bed linens sullied, and paid me little or no attention whatsoever. There was an exception however, to the household's general ignorance of my existence. Patricia Thuman, one of the maids, was a bright, intelligent young lady whose friendly acquaintance I enjoyed making almost at once. Many might have thought the friendship imprudent, but as I was hardly a gentleman of any large consequence and she a well-mannered, kind girl; I thought nothing of it. I had been at the Loffemoore Manor for nearly a week before Mr. Arthur Loffemoore saw it fit to introduce himself. He was a man of three and sixty years of age, a sharp-thinking fellow with an intense demeanor. I could discern from his stature that he had once been a very impressive man, and his icy blue eyes could still distill fear into a heart with ease. I thought something rather off-balanced about the gentleman, but he was obliging and courteous enough. I soon became a steady companion to the elder man, as he enjoyed my companion and often called for me to play chess with him in the evenings. I suspect that the elder gentleman must have been exceedingly lonely, and I was glad to ease his troubles. He courteously invited me to make the fullest use of the Manor's library, at which I was immensely thrilled. Miss Patricia -or Patty as she was often called- was my ever complacent companion, and I often spent some time with her in pleasant conversation. In all, I was quite comfortable at the Loffemoore Manor, and while the excellently stocked library remained within its doors, I was happy to also remain.**


	2. Chapter 2

"**Vincent," said the old Mr. Arthur one evening when we were playing chess, (for he had soon abandoned the formality of calling me 'Mr. Quiller') "Have you ever been so caught up with an object, so yearning for it , so completely fascinated with a thing that you would do anything, anything in heaven or hell to obtain it?" I stared at the old man's face as he lounged in his chair, with his back to the large marble fireplace in his drawing room. "No, sir." I answered slowly, "No sir, I have not." The older gentleman only grunted in response to this. His eyes were wandering and I could see his mind was elsewhere occupied. I was slightly alarmed at this behavior, it was uncharacteristic of him to acting in such a manner. The event burdened my thoughts for the rest of the evening. The next morning, when managing to snatch a few moments of pleasantries with Patricia, she confessed a grand, romantic notion."Now, I know you're going to laugh, Mr. Vincent, but I really do believe there's some sort of mystery afoot here. This house is too grand and somber not to have one, don't you think?" I told her I thought the notion was quite silly, and that surely there must be better employments for her idle thoughts. She said she found my notions equally ridiculous, and then we took a turn in the garden and quite forgot about the matter. The pesky idea, however, could not be erased from my head, and the thought kept resurfacing at even the slightest hint of inconsistency or intrigue. As I had ample chance to observe old Mr. Loffemoore, I noticed that he wrote a great deal of letters to a particular Gregory Foster. What the letters contained, however, I hadn't the slightest idea. What struck me most was that this frequent correspondence with this Mr. Foster was the only one he had. I dismissed the matter at once, many men had a steady correspondence with old friends or business associates, and I scolded myself for being so easily swayed by Petunia's foolish ideas. In my leisurely hours, when not in the library, I was often out in the garden, a beautiful and well kept place, surrounded by high walls. During several of my frequent meanderings, I noticed a washerwoman, a comely matron dressed in humble attire, who would shuffle her way down one of the gravel paths and peer into the windows. I noted this strange and rather ill-bred behavior, but kept silent. I rarely wish to confront anyone, and this washerwoman was no exception. On one occasion, however, I dared to speak. I had been walking through the old rose garden, and pondering how it might appear in the spring time. I was thus interrupted in my musings by the sound of scuffling. I turned back towards the house, and found the washerwoman on one of the larger windowsills, attempting to enter the house! I called out to her in a loud voice, and she whirled towards me. I was frozen, absolutely stunned by the woman's incredibly beautiful face. She was not young, to be sure, but she was astoundingly beautiful. She scrambled down from the window and fled from me in an instant. I stood, rooted to the spot, absolutely transfixed and intensely puzzled. Even after I retired to the house, the strange behavior of the beautiful woman puzzled me. She was certainly not a washerwoman by trade, I could tell from her delicate hands and lovely face. She must have then had some reason for masquerading as one. Ponder and turn it every way I could, I made no sense of it through the course of the day. I was glad when the gentleman called for me, if it would do nothing but ease my mind on the peculiar event. The old Mr. Arthur, however, was in a sharp and satirical mood, which quickly convinced me that I had much better keep quiet during this particular visit than mention the strange woman. It was a rather chilly evening, now that was early September, and the older gentleman began to tremble in his wraps. I meekly suggested that the fireplace be lit, I was quite considered for his health, as he was positively shivering. To this he told me off with a sharper response that he had ever given me. I dared to ask him to reconsider, and he nearly flew into a rage. I stumbled through an apology and stayed almost completely silent for the entire evening. I was puzzled; why, if he refused so vehemently to have the grand fireplace lit, did he always sit with his back directly to it, almost completely obscuring it from view with his large over-stuffed armchair? I retired to my bed, grateful to drift off into dreams, where all inconsistencies where of my own making and much less troubling.**


End file.
